Hours Passed. Or days.
He was blindfolded most of the time now. Spoken to only when necessary. He ate from her fingers. He pissed on command. He dreamed of nothing.
But each time she entered, his body reacted. Not with arousal — the cage had starved that out of him — but with need.
The desire to serve. To be reshaped. To be reduced, refined, reborn.
She pegged him again — harder now, less ceremony — while reciting phrases he no longer understood but felt deep in his bones.
“You are a vault.”
“You are the lock and the key.”
“You are obedience made flesh.”
He repeated them back through sobs and sweat.
His pain wasn’t punishment anymore. It was currency.
And every session cost him another fragment of his old self.
Then came the mirror room.
He was led, blindfolded, on hands and knees. When it was removed, he gasped.
The room was made of one-way glass — walls, ceiling, floor. He saw only himself. But not quite.
He was gaunt. Mouth bruised. Thighs raw. Skin marked with faint lines from straps, canes, the imprint of Mistress’s palm.
But his eyes?
Empty. Obedient. Beautiful in their ruin.